


every chorus was your name

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please,” she tells him, knowing there’s no way she could ever communicate all she means with the word. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, as if he’s overwhelmed. He turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, sweet and almost chaste. It adds another layer to the wild jumble in her belly, to the heat flooding her whole body. And then she sees the pink of his tongue, feels the careful, gentle touch of it, and the heat turns to fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every chorus was your name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **[kinkmeme](http://workswithwords.livejournal.com/259929.html)** prompt: **[Jon/Sansa + cunnilingus](http://workswithwords.livejournal.com/259929.html?thread=2128217#t2128217)**.

She’s never let him do this before. Not that he hasn’t tried. Of course, it’s Jon; even his trying is sweet, careful, respectful. Never forceful. But every time she’d let him close – every time his tongue laved the crease of her hip, or the merest feather of his breath over such sensitive skin made her shiver – years of unconscious training had taken over; ladies don’t do such things, ladies don’t _want_ such things, so she’d crowded him away with the closing of her thighs, hands tangling in his soft hair to pull him back up for her kiss. He’d never complained, or even seemed disappointed – not Jon, not her sweet Jon – but she’d always regretted her instinctive rejection once the burst of nerves and fear had faded. And she’d wondered, often, what it would feel like. What Jon might do if she let him do as he would.

This time, she’s gotten herself drunk.

Hazily, she has to acknowledge it’s a bit funny, that she basically seduced herself. But that’s something to think on later, maybe even something to laugh about with Jon afterwards. She almost feels an urge to laugh now, not because anything is humorous, but because she can feel Jon shouldering her thighs apart, can feel the scrape of his teeth along the pale skin of her inner thigh, and it’s making her quiver despite the languor of the wine in her limbs, making her feel as if she might jump entirely out of her skin like it’s only a gown she’s donned for the occasion. His mouth is close – gods, so close – and knowing she won’t stop him feels the way standing at the Moon Door always felt, like teetering on the edge of something irrevocable. Except he stops on his own, slides his mouth down to the shell of her knee and Sansa does laugh at that, because _really_. Stupid, noble, wonderful Jon.

She’s less than gentle when she fists a hand in his hair and tugs. The sound that comes from the back of his throat has her whole body tightening, wanting to mimic the sound herself. She’s still not used to this power she has over him, to the way he wants her. To his reaction when _she_ wants _him_ , amazed and reverent and unraveled.

“Sansa,” he says, when he realizes. His hands curl around her thighs, pinkies along the creases of her hips, his curls dark and wild against her pale skin. She shifts one leg and feels the delicate whorl of his ear against her inner thigh. His eyes are black and glittering in the firelight, intense enough that they would be unsettling if this weren’t Jon, her own Jon, the one man in all the world she trusts.

“Please,” she tells him, knowing there’s no way she could ever communicate all she means with the word. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, as if he’s overwhelmed. He turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, sweet and almost chaste. It adds another layer to the wild jumble in her belly, to the heat flooding her whole body. And then she sees the pink of his tongue, feels the careful, gentle touch of it, and the heat turns to fire.

“Oh,” she says, stunned. “ _Oh._ ” He hums against her, a smug, pleased sound, and she _feels_ it, gods. She tries to lie still at first, almost dismayed at the urge she feels to buck up against him like some wanton, but the touch of his tongue strips away every bit of control she has, until she’s only half conscious of her fingers clenched in his hair, of her body moving sinuously under his mouth, needing and wanting and desperately seeking more.

“So sweet,” he rasps, his voice scraping along her nerves in the best way. “Even sweeter than I’d imagined.” The words are punctuated by a long swipe of his tongue, by the feel of his fingers, sweeping and touching and seeking entrance. He crooks them inside her and she gasps, arches up off the bed so sharply that surely she’ll be sore tomorrow, but she doesn’t care.

“Did you often imagine this?” she manages to ask, her voice an obscene pant, though she no longer has room for shame with all the feelings he’s sent shimmering through her body, shafts of light and heat, explosions of color. At the sudden absence of his mouth, she looks down to see him looking at her, his eyes full of some unnameable emotion, one that has her heart lurching in her chest, that makes her body clench almost to the point of pain. Then he smiles, wolfishly, and lowers his head again, this time to suck at her, gently, ruthlessly, until she splinters into a thousand pieces, calling his name over and over until she’s hoarse.

When he moves to lie beside her, she stays him with a hand, pulls him atop her to lie with his head on her breast. After a moment’s hesitation – he always thinks he’s too heavy for her, no matter how often she says otherwise – he acquiesces, settling his head directly over her heartbeat. His hair curls about her fingers, making her feel as always like he’s holding her with every bit of his body. The sweet, familiar weight of him presses her into the ticking of the mattress like gravity itself.

“Jon?” she says. His murmured response reverberates through her chest. “You should have done that a long time ago.” The bark of his laugh is sharp and genuine, it shakes through both of them and echoes along the walls, and Sansa laughs too, and thinks that maybe this is one happiness no one will ever be able to take from her.

 

_title from Laundry Room by the Avett brothers _


End file.
